A SONG OF LIFE

Many of us merely exist, and think that we live. What we should regain at all costs is freshness and intensity of being. This need not involve turbulent activity. It may involve quite the opposite.

AY not, "I live!"

Unless the morning's trumpet brings

A shock of glory to your soul,
Unless the ecstasy that sings

Through rushing worlds and insects' wings,

Sends you upspringing to your goal,

Glad of the need for toil and strife,

Eager to grapple hands with Life-

Say not, "I live!"

Say not, "I live!"

Unless the energy that rings
Throughout this universe of fire

A challenge to your spirit flings,
Here in the world of men and things,
Thrilling you with a huge desire
To mate your purpose with the stars,
To shout with Jupiter and Mars-
Say not, "I live!"

Say not, "I live!"

Such were a libel on the Plan
Blazing within the mind of God

Ere world or star or sun began.
Say rather, with your fellow man,
"I grub; I burrow in the sod."
Life is not life that does not flame
With consciousness of whence it came-
Say not, "I live!"

From "The Hour Has Struck,"
The John Lane Co.

Angela Morgan.

A POOR UNFORTUNATE

Things are never so bad but they might have been worse. An immigrant into the South paid a negro to bring him a wild turkey. The next day he complained: "You shouldn't shoot at the turkey's body, Rastus. Shoot at his head. The flesh of that turkey was simply full of shot." "Boss," said the negro, "dem shot was meant for me.”

I

HIS hoss went dead an' his mule went lame;

He lost six cows in a poker game;

A harricane came on a summer's day,
An' carried the house whar' he lived away;
Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone,
An' swallered the lan' that the house stood on!
An' the tax collector, he come roun'

An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'!
An' the city marshal—he come in view
An' said he wanted his street tax, too!

II

Did he moan an' sigh? Did he set an' cry
An' cuss the harricane sweepin' by?

Did he grieve that his ol' friends failed to call
When the airthquake come an' swallered all?
Never a word o' blame he said,

With all them troubles on top his head!

Not him. ... He clumb to the top o' the hill-
Whar' standin' room wuz left him still,

An', barin' his head, here's what he said:
"I reckon it's time to git up an' git;

But, Lord, I hain't had the measels yit!"

Frank L. Stanton.

Printed in and permission from "The Atlanta Constitution.”

THE TRAINERS

To Franklin, seeking recognition and aid for his country at the French court, came news of an American disaster. "Howe has taken Philadelphia," his opponents taunted him. "Oh, no," he answered, "Philadelphia has taken Howe." He shrewdly foresaw that the very magnitude of what the British had done would lull them into overconfidence and inaction, and would stir the Americans to more determined effort. Above all, he himself was undisturbed; for to the strong-hearted, trials and reverses are instruments of final success.

Y name is Trouble-I'm a busy bloke

MY

I am the test of Courage-and of ClassI bind the coward to a bitter yoke,

I drive the craven from the crowning pass; Weaklings I crush before they come to fame; But as the red star guides across the night, I train the stalwart for a better game;

I drive the brave into a harder fight.

My name is Hard Luck-the wrecker of rare dreams—
I follow all who seek the open fray;

I am the shadow where the far light gleams
For those who seek to know the open way;
Quitters I break before they reach the crest,
But where the red field echoes with the drums,
I build the fighter for the final test

And mold the brave for any drive that comes.

My name is Sorrow-I shall come to all

To block the surfeit of an endless joy; Along the Sable Road I pay my call

Before the sweetness of success can cloy; And weaker souls shall weep amid the throng And fall before me, broken and dismayed; But braver hearts shall know that I belong And take me in, serene and unafraid.

My name's Defeat-but through the bitter fight,

To those who know, I'm something more than friend;

For I can build beyond the wrath of might
And drive away all yellow from the blend;
For those who quit, I am the final blow,

But for the brave who seek their chance to learn,
I show the way, at last, beyond the foe,

To where the scarlet flames of triumph burn.

Permission of the Author.

From "The Sportlight."

LIFE

Grantland Rice.

Most of us have failed or gone astray in one fashion or another, at one time or another. But we need not become despondent at such times. We should resolve to reap the full benefit of the discovery of our weakness, our folly.

LL in the dark we grope along,

AL

And if we go amiss

We learn at least which path is wrong,
And there is gain in this.

We do not always win the race
By only running right,

We have to tread the mountain's base
Before we reach its height.

But he who loves himself the last
And knows the use of pain,

Though strewn with errors all his past,
He surely shall attain.

Some souls there are that needs must taste
Of wrong, ere choosing right;

We should not call those years a waste
Which led us to the light.

From "Poems of Power,"

W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, Ill.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

A TOAST TO MERRIMENT

A lady said to Whistler that there were but two painters— himself and Velazquez. He replied: "Madam, why drag in Velazquez?" So it is with Joyousness and Gloom. Both exist,— but why drag in Gloom?

AKE merry! Though the day be gray

Forget the clouds and let's be gay!
How short the days we linger here:
A birth, a breath, and then-the bier!
Make merry, you and I, for when
We part we may not meet again!

What tonic is there in a frown?
You may go up and I go down,

Or I go up and you-who knows
The way that either of us goes?
Make merry! Here's a laugh, for when
We part we may not meet again!

Make merry! What of frets and fears?
There is no happiness in tears.

You tremble at the cloud and lo!
'Tis gone and so 'tis with our woe,
Full half of it but fancied ills.
Make merry! 'Tis the gloom that kills.

Make merry! There is sunshine yet,
The gloom that promised, let's forget,
The quip and jest are on the wing,
Why sorrow when we ought to sing?
Refill the cup of joy, for then
We part and may not meet again.

A smile, a jest, a joke-alas!
We come, we wonder, and we pass.
The shadow falls; so long we rest
In graves, where is no quip or jest.